D Day Minus 181 (Sep 9, 2009): Keeping up with the Joneses (Part 1): We Gotta a Plane to Catch

“Katie is on her way.” You said, dropping the black duffle bag, the one with the yellow stripe you commandeered from Dad on one of our trips to Bassett. Dad was outside, playing with the Garmin GPS. Okay, he wasn’t really playing, he was telling the Garmin chick where to go: Baltimore Washington International (BWI).

I was teetering on the brink of ‘Rainman.’ Had I printed out the boarding passes? Was Dad mad about having to leave work? How long is it really going to take to get to BWI? Did I pack the power cord for the zebra netbook? What about the chargers for my phone, iPOd and Kindle? Was Dad keeping the GPS with him to navigate back from BWI? Do I rent a GPS with the car in Houston or go old school commando with maps? How much is renting a GPS going to cost? Do we have enough time go buy a new GPS? Should I bring a camera? Should I get some cash? Did you print out your appointments so we knew where to go? Did I pack enough Dentyne? The sugar free sucralose gum makes my stomach hurt. I don’t want stomach issues especially on the plane and especially when I was supposed to be there for you. Do I have a plastic bag for my makeup and lotion for airport security? Do I have my neti pot for my sinuses? What about the salt and baking soda solution for my neti pot? Where’s my calcium and Zyrtec? What about Motrin? Was Dad mad? Where’s my license? Should I take a big Diet Mountain Dew to drink on the way or will I have to pee before we get to the airport? Where’s the printouts for the car and room reservations? What if we have to change our flights for some other treatment? Where’s my sweater? I don’t want to freeze on the plane. Did I pack enough clothes?

Rainman won. I opened my new hard-cased zebra rollaround carryon– with the extra special wheel technology – that didn’t get jammed like my old rollaround. And double and triple checked my mental list while you were outside waiting for Katie and talking to Dad.

Last night, we talked about what to pack and if we were checking our luggage. You wanted to know because we needed to buy a small tube of toothpaste if we were doing carry on. I told you we weren’t checking our bags, because it was easier and quicker not to. Besides Continental does (or may) charge to check bags and I didn’t feel like getting online to check. I said, “Just risk bringing your ‘half-squozen’ regular sized tube of Toms Toothpaste and throw it away if we got any grief at security.” That prompted you and to call Katie and invite her to go with you on a toothpaste run to our favorite French store Tar-sjay (Target).

Before Katie picked you up for the toothpaste run, you bragged that you already packed. “Whatever.” I teased “You packed already because you have to work in the morning.” Then you went on and on about your packing prowess. Three days worth – one outfit for Thursday – one for Friday– and a spare just in case. All with their sock buddies, which made me laugh because you were so anal about making sure socks matched. You even had a battle cry for your socks –stay in pairs and leave no buddy behind. You got the sock gene from Dad. I didn’t even have the chromosome for the gene to map to. Close enough was good enough for me. Why do you think I wore boots and sandals so much? Maybe I have a problem, but I’m a river in Egypt – De-Nile.

Have you noticed any of my refuges for all the sock refugees spanning Sterling and Bassett? There’s one in:

• my bedroom stuffed in a trash bag in the deacons bench,
• a bankers box stuffed away in my closet,
• a clothes basket stuffed in the spare room in Bassett, and
• in the middle drawer of my nightstand and Dad’s nightstand.  

Come to think of it, I know why you, Dad, and Morgan were afraid of losing your socks when I washed clothes and why you stopped having me wash your clothes when you were fifteen.

Oh well, life’s too short to worry about socks. I’ve got better things to do. On the other hand it would have made Navy boot camp easier if I had an inkling of the gene. It wasn’t the early morning physical training that made me break a sweat, it was the attention to detail – lining up dress edges in my locker, make sure my gig line was straight and threading my belt through all my belt loops. To this day I know how many belt loops are on a pair of dungarees (seven) and it drives me crazy when someone’s gig line is adrift. I have to fight the urge not to straighten up their shirt so it is aligned with their pant fly. Come to think of it, maybe there is hope for me. I just don’t do socks. Don’t you think it is ironic, that I was the one in the Navy, but you were the one with the military precision?

“It's time to go.” You said, picking up your duffle bag. Katie stood next to you, wishing she could come with. Believe me, I knew how she felt. It was harder to stay behind than to go. But, I also wondered if she had a breaking point.  Dealing with cancer in the real world is hard and you and I didn't have the option to leave ourselves behind.  We both knew this was for real. This ain’t no scripted reality TV. This is real life unscripted – It’s "Keeping up with the Joneses."

D Day Minus 184: (September 5, 2009); Life is a Box of.......

“Any flammables of firearms?” Bassett Post Office Lady asked as I hoisted up the first of three, thirty five pound boxes of clothes, bound for Utah. She scrunched and stretched her nose at least four times trying to read the numbers on a faded tape measure: which made me think of caterpillars; which made me think of Morgan’s school play in grade school and the costume I made. You know the play, the one where Morgan was a caterpillar going through metamorphosis to a butterfly. Remember how she got stuck in the black cocoon I made out of fleece and Velcro. I thought she was going to die on the stage. You, me, and Dad tried not to laugh while we all willed the cocoon open. By the time she got free, she looked like some wild eyed butterfly. Man, I wish I had videotaped it. It would have been good blackmail material.


Anyway, Post Office Lady was annoyed that I showed up five minutes before closing. I would’ve been there sooner if I would have got the good parking spot. You know, the one right outside the front door. Well anyway, I ended up parking way out in back and lugging all those big a**ed boxes myself. You should have been there to help me, but you had to work. Dad offered, but I thought I’d get the spot in front, plus I wanted to go hunt for Dentyne without him and his grief, so it’s my own fault. At least the locals, opened the door for me, but I had to listen to “she’s such a little thing carrying all those big boxes” each time I brought in a box.

‘No, just clothes.” I said, willing Post Office Lady to move faster. When she finally put the first box on the floor behind her, I grabbed the second box and said something about all the boxes being the same size. It didn’t matter. She measured the boxes anyway. So much for trying to be helpful!

“That’s a lot of clothes.” Post Office Lady said with her southern drawl. “Somebody movin or die?”

“No,” I said, searching for my Visa card. “Just sending clothes to my sister, who will share the clothes with her daughter-in-law and our nieces. I have a lot of family in Utah. I like to share with them because I feel like I’m with them and that we are all connected when they wear my clothes. That way I don’t feel guilty if I decide I don’t like something I bought. Besides, I’m a good shopper and can find some really good deals. Sometimes I buy clothes that I know I’ll just send to Utah because I thought they were cute and my sister or nieces will like them. I just like to share. I love them.”

I don’t think I took a breath and felt like an idiot after I spewed out all that kumbaya crap. I can just see you pinching the bridge of your nose, trying to be invisible. I know I should have just said “clothes.” But, I didn’t want Post Office Lady mad at me or to think I was a stuck up Northerner. Besides, you know how I always fill in dead air.

After that I just kept my mouth shut and wondered if the Post Office had changed much since it was built some fifty-years ago and imagined all the changes that took place. Then I thought about whether people change and if we’re all connected then how do we stay connected if we’re all changing.

These thoughts went on until 12:05 and Post Office Lady said, “That’ll be $95.22. It’ll take up to two weeks.” I handed her my Visa in tandem with “That’ll.”

On my way out, I caught my reflection in the front door window of the Post Office. A 29+ year old mother of two twenty-somethings, brown hair pulled back in a pony-tail clad in a Pepe Le Pew black and gray striped graphic tee, leggings, and monkey shoes. Maybe monkey shoes wasn’t typical Bassett footware. But were you and I really that different from all the Bassett locals? Probably not.  Everyone has dramas playing out in their lives every day. Some better, some worse. Thoughts, feelings, and reactions were the only difference.

A late model car with a really loud muffler broke my train of thought as I walked back to the SUV. I started it up and made sure my cell was in the charger. And stared at my reflection in the rear view mirror, thinking about what matters.

Last May, after you separated from your ex and were on the road to recovery from your bowel surgery, we talked and talked about what really matters. Do you remember that Spring Day when we walked the loop around the pond in Sterling? We talked about how happy we were that Morgan was finally taking care of herself – eating better, exercising, and taking time out to enjoy life. You didn’t care so much that she was looking better and could fit in cute clothes. You were mostly happy that Morgan was feeling better about herself.

You said,”It’s not the outside and how you look that matters. It’s how you feel on the inside.” Then we talked about how our thoughts affect the way we feel. And that beliefs are only thoughts that we keep thinking over and over again.

I said, “Faith was certainty in beliefs." And you said, “Our feelings were like an indicator of thoughts. It was fine to be scared, as long as you find a way to feel just a little be better. Then you’re doing all you can.”

I felt for my Believe in Zebra band and thought of all the others that believed. I wondered what that meant and what everyone believed, but decided it was none of my business. I just wanted everyone to believe that things (no matter what) could get better if you just pay attention and found ways to feel better. It didn’t have to be perfect, just better. I really wanted to tell you what I decided, but knew you were working. So, I texted you, “call when you can.” Because I knew you would.

As I drove through Bassett, passed all the old furniture factories, my mind was still on overdrive. Was life really a box of chocolates? You never know, what your gonna get like Forrest Gump said. Or was it a box of clothes and all the connections it makes by all those that wear them? Or were we the boxes and life is really our thoughts, feelings, beliefs, and emotions? I answered “D” for all of the above? So much for standardized tests. You know, I’m just one crazy mother.

D Day Minus 186 (September 3, 2009): The Present

"Do you think the chemo is working?" I asked Dad when someone in a minivan cut him off just as we exited, off I 66 on to I 81, on our way to Bassett. Dad yelled "Pay attention" and glared at the minivan ahead. He let out a loud sigh and shook his head like he does when he thinks someone is an idiot.

I waited for an answer, but Dad didn’t answer. Maybe he was replaying what he’d really like to do to stupid drivers if he had a gun or contemplating winning the lottery. Dad fantasized, while I debated whether to stare off into space or listen to Henry David Thoreau’s book Walden that I downloaded from Audible a few days ago. I just reread, Tim Ferris’s book, The 4-Hour Work Week, and Walden was on his short list of recommended reading. Remember I made you read Tim’s book last October just before we found out that you had to start Dacarbazine. I thought you’d like the concepts to simplify and march to the beat of your own drummer. And you did.

 

Dad still didn’t answer! So I listened to Walden and stared off into the sunset. The rhythm of the road vibrated my face as I leaned against the passenger window. I tried not to think about whether the chemo was working, but failed miserably. I’d miss two or three paragraphs at a time of Walden. It would have helped if Thoreau didn’t meander and muse so much. He made the ‘simple life’ complex, confusing, and boring. The sunset didn’t help either. I’d go into a trance as strands of pinks, purples, and yellows hugged the Shenandoah Mountains like a blanket and think of how much you liked sunsets and how I wanted you to have a million more. I wanted the chemo to work. I wondered how much “the want” invaded your thoughts today at work or if you were too distracted to think.

 

My cell rang, but I didn’t make a move to get it from the tangle of electronics in the middle console. Dad was annoyed I didn’t answer. But, he answered it for me anyway. Aunt Janiene wanted to know if I was doing okay. I nodded yes and pleaded with Dad not to talk. You understood. You knew how hard it was to talk sometimes and assure people that it is going to be all right. You knew how hard it was to be fearless when you felt like the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz. Like I told you earlier today, waiting and not doing anything is the hardest part. All I wanted to know is the chemo working?

 

“How is my am-me-nal? Dad asked, when he got off the phone with Janiene. I turned off Walden and put my left hand under Dad’s sleeve. “I just want to know if the chemo is working.”

 

“We’ll know next week.” Dad said as he moved to the far right lane so we could make our first pit stop (on the way to Bassett) at Sheetz.

 

“And if it doesn’t work?” I asked squeezing Dad’s arm. “What then?” I wanted assurances, but knew it wasn’t Dad’s job. But, I wanted him to tell me it would be okay - anyway.

 

“One day at time.” Dad said. “One day at a time.” I nodded to Dad and did my best not to bawl. Then, he kissed my forehead in front of the gas pump, just after he put the SUV in park. While he got gas, I got a liter bottle of Diet Mountain Dew and waited for him to get his lottery ticket. I texted you that we were at Sheetz and you texted right back with “k.” And I felt a little better. In fact, a lot better. I thought of something I heard a long time ago:

                       The past is history.

                       The future is a mystery.

                       This day is a gift.

                       That is why they call it the present.

 

And finally smiled, just as Dad opened the driver's side door.

 

D Day Minus 187 (September 2, 2009): You Get What You Give

“I’m going down to the basement to do yoga.” I said after a long day of work. In fact, it was extra long because Dad and I were trying to get caught up so we could go down to Bassett for a long Labor Day weekend.  Of course, I’d beaten Dad home because he was dealing with the crisis du jour.  You’d eaten a late lunch at Wegmans and were waiting to go pick up something to eat with Katie.  So dinner was catch- as-catch-can. 

You sat in your black leather office chair at attention like the letter L.  Even the way you held the mouse looked like the letter L.   Hall and Oates, No Can Do, was playing just loud enough to be annoying.
 

 “I have a date with Bryan Kest.  Don’t tell Dad.”  You didn’t respond.  Instead you mumbled something about the date of a check and direct deposit as you updated the register in Quicken.

 I shook my head, muttering, “So much for making a funny,” on my way downstairs.
 

“Mom.”  You yelled, just as I rolled out my yoga mat in the basement.

“What?” I yelled back.  I only heard half of what you said.  I rolled my eyes and stomped back up the stairs to your office complaining (under my breath) about never finding my inner peace and tranquility at this rate.

“Work was good.” You said like it was news to me.  You’d already told me that during my earlier inquisition of how your day was. 

“Listen to this.” You said. The Pointer Sisters, “He So Shy,” blared out of your tinny sounding computer speakers.   “Yeah, this was playing in the background at work today.” You smiled. “Remember when.”

I interrupted you. “You thought they were singing Please Don’t Shine and you had me looking all over for the song.” We laughed as we remembered when the song came on the radio and you said that was the song.  I wouldn’t have ever figured out the mystery if it wouldn’t have been on the radio.

“So work was good.” I said, smiling at the déjà vu of the conversation of an hour ago.  But it really wasn’t the same this time. Early our conversation was cogent and perfunctory.  This time you had diarrhea of the mouth. I guess balancing your checkbook or whatever you did between then and now made you relax.

“Everyone that I work with is awesome.” You said. “They couldn’t believe I looked so good.  I told them everything was fine and I expected good news next week at MD Anderson when I get scanned.  I don’t think they really believe I have cancer.  Or that they’ve never seen someone so positive with cancer.”


I planted myself on the floor and just let your mouth run  You hoped others would learn by your actions and knew great things were in your future. We talked about inspiring awesomeness and how this journey was teaching you (and me) to be a better person.  About a half an hour later, Katie called and you two made your plans.

I went back downstairs to yoga, not to find my inner peace and tranquility like earlier.  I’d just found that with you.

As my date, Bryan yammered for the umpteenth time about not doing nose breathing, my mind flashed with awareness.  Were you inspiring us or were we inspiring you? 


“You get what you give,” kept repeating in my mind until I finished my prayer twists on both sides.  I was in the zone until Bryan ended our practice with Namaste.   Then the thought started up again, “You get what you give." And it stayed with me for the rest of the night. 

D Day Minus 188 (September 1, 2009): Life is the Mundane

"You going to work slacker?" I asked, but you just lay there. I knew you were awake.  How could you not be with the squeaky closet door opening and closing just outside of your bedroom and my heavy stepping?  I’d traipsed back and forth between my bedroom and my overflow closet at least five times in search of something to wear that didn’t make me look fat. 

“Are you awake?” I pulled on your right toe that peaked out from under your sheet.  Your comforter was rumpled around your head like a crown or maybe a rainbow. 

 “I’m not working today.”  You said, eyes closed, head glued to the pillow.

“I thought you were feeling better.” I said bracing myself for a tale of insomnia, puking, and a throbbing head.  My stomach churned as I thought about canceling a meeting I called and staying home to make sure you were doing okay.  I stood there for a minute or so, trying not to ‘rainman’ you about taking some anti-nausea meds or Tylenol or getting food or filling your water bottle or bargaining with whoever would listen to make you feel better.   Meanwhile, I practiced my deep breaths –in for four and out for four. After a few rounds of my deep breathing, you opened your eyes, sat up, and smiled a devious smile.


“Oh, didn’t I mention it.  I’m off today.   Julie wants me to be extra rested when I go in tomorrow.  You know Mom.” You paused. “I have an intense week of training ahead.  Then we’re going to Houston.” You punctuated ‘Houston’ by throwing your comforter on the floor right next to my feet.  I was sort of glad you had bed head and bed creases across your face.
 
“I hate you.” I said yanking your right toe extra hard this time.

“Be nice.” You said.  Then you rattled off your plans for the day – oil change, hair cut, Walmart, bank.  My nose started to tingle like it was getting stuck by pins – a sure sign of tears to follow.  All because I was so happy that you could do the boring trivial tasks today especially since I was so afraid that you were going to be in bed all day.  I was happy you had Wegmans. I was grateful for your boss Julie.  She saw all of your potential and gave you hope.  I was grateful that I could go into work and not worry all day about you. All things I used to take for granted.

“Are you ok?” You asked when the tears streamed down my face. “Do you need a hug?” And you gave me one, while I finished with one of 'my moments.'

D Day Minus 190 (August 30, 2009): Hasta La Vista Futon

“Damnit Nance, you almost ran me into to the wall.”  Dad yelled as we carried your old futon frame down the stairs. You were in the guest bed reeling from a bout of nausea and the afterglow of chemo.  And you knew Dad and me well enough to ignore our bickering.

I did not almost run Dad into the wall.  He was being a drama mama.  He was cranky because I cajoled him to get rid of your futon as soon we got back from the mattress store.  It didn’t help that it was really hot outside and we already had been up and down the stairs twice—carrying up the new box springs.  All I wanted to do was get rid of that futon. I hated it.

It was a mistake when I bought it.  I was tired and mad at Dad about something I don’t even remember, so it must not have been important.  I’d been on a HGTV redecorating on budget kick so I thought futons were a good idea. You and Morgan were running around the furniture store like little monkeys.  You were eight and Morgan was six.  I thought about leaving both of you in the store and selling you for a buck ninety five to the first takers about third time Dad told you guys to behave.  I got fed up and told Dad to buy the futon, while I waited in the car with you and Morgan.

You rescued that stupid futon and its slouchy mattress from Goodwill when you were fourteen.  You wanted a bigger bed and thought it was cool that it could be made into a couch.  We didn’t have money for a new bed so I let you adopt it, with the intent to get you a real bed within a year.  As time went on other things came up.  But, I vowed to get rid of it “one day.”  I don’t know how you could stand it.  It was uncomfortable and the mattress never stayed put.  It was possessed.   Did I tell you I hated it?

You actually liked that futon and said it was fine up until last January, just after your appendectomy. You couldn’t sleep because you couldn’t get comfortable.  You’d lost forty pounds and you needed more padding.  (We didn’t know at the time that your bowel had perforated, which made you even more uncomfortable.  Hindsight is 20/20.)  You were still in Roanoke and I talked to you four or five times a day on the phone and your biggest complaint was how uncomfortable your bed was.   Dad and I got you a thermapedic clone from Costco in hopes that you could finally get comfortable.  We didn’t have enough room in the SUV for box springs last January, so we put that on the back burner. After we found out the cancer spread on your 24^th birthday and that you needed life threatening surgery, the box springs didn’t matter.  Getting you back up to Sterling so we could help you recover was all that did matter.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to,” is all I said to Dad once we got the futon frame to the garage. But, it was enough.  We worked together to get your bed set up.   Well actually Dad put it together and I just followed orders.  In between Dad’s orders I checked on you in the guest room, which probably drove you crazy.   The song from the Lion King’s Circle of Life kept popping in my head as I thought about the futon and its role in our lives.  It didn’t stop until, I thought of the Terminator.  Then I said “Hasta La Vista Futon.”  

D Day Minus 191 (August 29, 2009): Say Goodnight Freddy Krueger

You jumped back like you just saw a ghost.  Only it was Freddy Krueger.  Well it wasn’t really Freddy Krueger. But if you wouldn’t have bounced into my room like Tigger (from Winnie the Pooh) excitedly telling me that you and Dad were going to Best Buy, you would have known.  Sure the lights were low and the television wasn’t very bright and the sound was muted. But at least I was watching Building an Empire on the History Channel instead of the E! News.  I was in the middle of an experimental beauty regimen.  I seriously thought you and Dad had already left for Best Buy.   I thought I was free to retreat to my healing and beauty sanctuary.  That imaginary place I go with white fluffy pillows that smell like toasted pecans lit by hundreds of candles.  My eyes were closed as I was healing.  Healing my soul!  Healing my heart!  Healing my body!  Healing my face!  Only to interrupted by you!  And that s*** eating grin like you could blackmail for life.

 “Where’s Freddy and when are you going to give him back his mask?” You asked, heavy on the sarcasm.

 “Shut up and get out of here.” I glared but you couldn’t tell because only slivers of eyes peeked through the mask. I couldn’t move my head very well either because the treatment mask was sort of dripping on my pillow.

 “Seriously, where’s Freddy?” You burst out laughing and called Dad upstairs.  And said something about your phone, a camera and being set for life.  Then you started up with your exaggerated knee slapping smart aleck laugh.

“I’m going kill you if you don’t leave.” I barely choked out “kill you” before I started laughing -- hard. It was like doing serious ab work.  Just when I progressed to my snorting laugh, Dad headed up to our bedroom.


“Turkeyman, are we going or not?”  Dad’s voice trailed as he made his way up the stairs. “Leave your mother alone.” Dad stopped at the door jam and shook his head like I was an idiot.

“Yeah.” I said. “Leave your mother alone.” And shook a faux angry fist when you turned to leave.  

When you and Dad were in the foyer, I yelled, “Yeah and get me some Diet Mountain Dew, too.”  Dad mumbled something about me getting off my lazy butt and getting it myself, punctuated by the slamming of the front door.

After you left, Freddy came off. I was all alone looking at myself in the mirror with a wicked smile plastered on my face.  And a big fat secret.  “You’ll never know the real Nightmare on Rutherford Circle.”